Dog Days
by ThexInvisiblexGirl
Summary: Mr. Bruckman eyes me with pity he thinks I can't comprehend, and assures me that I needn't worry, that he has found the perfect person to take good care of me from now on. Post episode for Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose. Please R&R!


**A/N: This one has taken ages to complete, but it's finally ready to share. I hope you guys like it and I'd love to hear what you think, as always. This is for _The White Masque_ whose insights and input helped to shape not only this oneshot, but hopefully a few more to come. So from one pug-person to another, it's always a pleasure to over-analyze The X Files with you!**

* * *

 **Dog Days**

Sitting outside the apartment that used to be my home, I'm waiting for my new owner. I'm not completely sure what has happened to Mrs. Lowe, but looking at Mr. Bruckman, the old man who takes me for walks sometimes, I know it's nothing good. He eyes me with pity he thinks I can't comprehend, and assures me that I needn't worry, that he has found the perfect person to take good care of me from now on. His dark gaze seems as kind as ever, and so I hope he hasn't been pulling my leg because it feels as though I've been sitting in this hallway for hours, and soon I'll have pressing business to attend to if whoever that is isn't here soon. And I've already ruined one carpet today.

I smell them before I see them, a man and a woman. His aftershave, although subtle, is too overpowering, an offense on my sensitive nostrils. Her scent is much sweeter, a blend of lavender and apples. I immediately begin to hope I am meant for her. I know I won't last two days with a man who smells like that. It is by no means a bad smell; it's masculine and clean. Nonetheless, it makes me recoil. He probably spends hours in front of the mirror each morning making it appear as if he couldn't care less about his naturally good looks. I know just the type, and I don't like it. I sure hope Mr. Bruckman hasn't referred to this man while claiming he has found _the perfect person_ to take care of me. I'd like to believe he knows me better than that.

The sound of the woman's heels echoes against the hardwood floor. The two of them move in perfect sync, as if they are one. There's a rhythm to their steps, certain swiftness, which tells me they're rather young, definitely younger than Mrs. Lowe, and in many ways it is a relief. I am quite young myself (or at the very least, young at heart at the age of five) and keeping up with the old lady has become tedious recently. Being under the care of someone younger means a whole new life filled with energy and vivacity. It means trips to the park and endless games of Fetch. I won't just waste away as my owner watches television from dawn to dusk, with the occasional walk around the block. I will actually get to live a little, possibly even socialize with fellow canines. I let out a whimper, half impatient, half curios, as they finally appear from around the corner.

I have not encountered many humans during my life with Mrs. Lowe, and so it's nice to know my instincts have not failed me… to an extent. The man is handsome in a clumsy sort of way; he is lanky and wears the most hideous tie. Upon seeing him, though, I realize I have made a mistake. He doesn't look like a person who observes his reflection for hours on end. He seems genuinely unaware of his wavy brown hair, his hazel eyes. He seems beyond such vanities. But I don't pay him much attention as he finds Mr. Bruckman's note on the door. I focus on the woman instead. _Miss Scully_ , according to Mr. Bruckman's own hand. She is a petit redhead with gleaming blue eyes. Like their footsteps, they seem to be in complete accordance regarding their styling choices, or the lack of it thereof, for the suit she is wearing is brown and ill-fitting. That's where the similarity ends, though. The man is towering over her; her head barely reaches his shoulders.

As I observe her sensible shoes, I ponder. Why are they here? Are they Mr. Bruckman's colleagues? But neither of them strikes me as salesperson material, and besides, Mr. Bruckman has mostly kept to himself in all the time I've known him. I doubt he would have any associates coming to pay him a visit at his home.

I'm getting momentarily sidetracked as Miss Scully reads the note aloud, and my suspicion is confirmed. Mrs. Lowe has indeed died. I've had some time to come to terms with it by now, so I hope she rests in peace, and keep on listening. I see surprise forming on both their faces as they realize I am meant for Miss Scully to keep. I say a silent prayer for Mr. Bruckman, who has not failed me after all. They're looking down at me uncertainly, then at one another, and open the door. She's holding my leash as I lead the way inside. From reasons unknown to me, I trust her completely. Some part of me can't fathom what gives them the right to barge in unannounced, but for the most part I'm simply spellbound. I know I'll follow this sweet-smelling creature anywhere.

By the time we leave the building, I conclude that they work for law enforcement in some way or other. They tell everything they know to the paramedics and police officers that arrive at the scene, but don't stick around to wrap things up. She seems reluctant to leave, but the man places his hand on the small of her back, gently leading her away. They walk silently to a dark car that's parked a short distance away. Wordlessly, she lifts me up onto the backseat. From over her shoulder, I catch the man frown.

What happens next is a blur. We make several stops, and eventually arrive at the airport. I'm anxious I'll have to be separated from her, but to my relief she pulls out a badge and calmly informs the security guard she's a federal agent, and that it's necessary I'll come on board with her. Once he waves them through Security, the man begins to tease her, telling her how badass she is and how wrong it is of her to misuse her authority for her personal advantage. She just rolls her eyes at him and sends him to get them both some coffee.

The flight is stressful and uncomfortable and seems to be lasting forever as I'm confined to this sort of crate, and so I'm quite relieved when we finally arrive at our destination – Washington DC, no less. I follow them to the parking lot, where the man unlocks what I assume is his car. As she places me in the backseat he suddenly seems to remember my existence and glowers at me, as though he fears I'll ruin the upholstery of his precious car.

Miss Scully is contemplative as we drive away, staring through the window. The man has tried to engage her in conversation several times, but she has only replied to his attempts with monosyllables. I think Mr. Bruckman's death has saddened her, which makes her even lovelier in my eyes. I can certainly relate. I too have lost someone dear to me today.

"So, umm," the man tries again. "Are you actually going to keep it?" He's glancing at the backseat and I suddenly realize that by _it_ he's referring to me.

This shakes her out of her reverie. She looks over her shoulder, and our eyes lock for a moment. I yip once softly, pitifully. Her expression softens ever so slightly at the sound. "I… guess I should."

"You'll grant a dead man his final wish? That's very amiable of you, Scully."

There's a hint of sarcasm in his voice, which I resent. She either ignores it, or doesn't even notice. "I don't see what else I can do. I won't leave him at some kennel, it just doesn't seem right. That's not what Mr. Bruckman has wanted."

She winces ever so slightly as she mentions Mr. Bruckman. The man seems to notice it too, but he doesn't comment on it, nor does he apologize for his previous quip. He keeps his eyes on the road as he drives. Since I'm seated right behind her, there's little to do but study his profile. He is annoyingly, effortlessly handsome with his pouty bottom lip, his strong jaw. I wonder if she notices it. I wonder what they are to one another. There's certain synchronicity between them; I witnessed it earlier when they approached me. I sense their draw towards one another, but at the same time there's something businesslike between them which confounds me somewhat. They're silent now, but they seem used to it, comfortable with each other's company. His aftershave is still bothering me. I hope I don't sneeze and break the silence. Somehow it doesn't feel right.

We stop at a pet store that is still open despite the late hour. The man seemed miffed by this fact, as if he has hoped that the unavailability of a pet store would make Miss Scully come to her senses about keeping me. She murmurs something about being back in a second, and then I realize that Mr. Pouty Lip gets to stay in the car. I mentally cheer for this small victory. I'm leading the way inside the store and she buys me food and treats and a new leash. She tells the salesgirl the little she knows about me, leaving out the gory details, and the salesgirl is gushing at the coincidence of it all as she rings up each item. Both of them tighten a new harness around my body and then we leave the store, surprising the man who seems to be dozing off.

"You okay, Mulder?" she asks him as she places me back in the backseat and tells me to stay put. "I don't mind driving the rest of the way if you want to rest your eyes for a bit."

My insides are melting. Pretty _and_ considerate? It is really far too much. There is no trace of the sadness she has seemed to be feeling previously upon seeing Mr. Bruckman lying dead in his bed. It's as if shopping for me has blown new energy into her. I have the power to make her better. As if I needed more reason to be happy about my change of circumstances.

Mr. Pouty Lip doesn't seem as touched by her thoughtful gesture, and I wonder what his problem is. Nonetheless he agrees and unbuckles his seatbelt, letting her take over.

He might not be happy about the switch, but I am thrilled, because I get tired of studying his profile, and can finally focus on hers. I note her pointed chin, her prominent cheekbones, the shape of her nose –

"I guess you will be late tomorrow, then?"

She takes her eyes off the road for a second, wordlessly questioning his inquiry.

"I just assumed you'd want to get it checked by a vet or something."

"I thought I'd do it at lunchtime," she replies. "There's a lot to do tomorrow morning, with this report to wrap up. Possibly an autopsy."

I watched a lot of TV at Mrs. Lowe's, and so I know what an autopsy is. I don't even have a chance to register how smart that means Miss Scully is if she is able to perform one. The man scowls as if her words displease him. "You don't have to be the one doing this autopsy, Scully," he says softly. For once, he doesn't sound sardonic or patronizing. I can tell he genuinely wants to protect her.

"I don't mind it," she replies, her tone as soft as his. She doesn't meet his eye though, and so I wonder if she truly means it. There's another pause, but it's a brief one. When she speaks again, her tone is lighter. She's obviously trying to change the subject. "Why are you so against this?" she asks him. "I thought you liked dogs."

"Precisely. Dogs."

She glances at the back seat, then back at him with her eyebrow raised, uncomprehending. I await his reply just as earnestly.

"That's not a dog, Scully. That's a lame excuse for one."

I growl menacingly. I can't help it. There's really no need for such rudeness, and the man is pushing it. However, the sound doesn't have the desired affect. Miss Scully giggles. Taking in Mr. Pouty Lip's reaction to the sound, I get the impression it is something she rarely does. Too bad, as well; she sounds adorable. I momentarily forget I'm supposed to be furious.

"I think you've offended him," she says, a ghost of a smile still lingering against her lips.

He doesn't acknowledge the possibility of offending me. He doesn't look over his shoulder in order to apologize. Instead he tells her smugly, "You must admit it's kind of funny."

"What is?"

"How he kind of looks like you."

"Uhh... thanks?"

"Seriously, don't you see it? You're a redhead, he's a redhead... ish."

His voice falters uncertainly, but he's obviously relieved when she touches her hair and sniggers. It becomes clear to me that if he's wary of offending anyone, it is her, not me. Under other circumstances I might have found his comparison endearing, but I can't possibly do so when all he's done since we met was treating me with utter disrespect. And it's not that I think he's so wonderful, but at least I wasn't acting on it. I know it's unlikely, but I wish he has reached out to pet my head; it would have given me a chance to bite off his finger. I can be discourteous as well if I so desire.

"What are you going to call him?"

"I'm not sure yet. I can't think with all your negative energy," she seems happy with her backfire, from some reason. The man chuckles and leans back in his seat. Soon he falls asleep, his head slumped against the window, snoring softly. The woman glances at him with what seems suspiciously like affection, then throws a glance at the backseat. In a moment, I'm alert. Our eyes meet and she smiles. "Guess it's just you and me, then."

I yip, wishing it will always be the case.

I spend the rest of the drive wondering what my new house will be like. Mrs. Lowe's place was too crammed and dark, and it smelt funny, like fish that had gone bad. I note the way Miss Scully's red hair curls right above her collar, and mentally smile. Her place won't smell like that. I imagine a place as bright and pretty as she is. I just wish... My gaze wanders to the taller man, sleeping soundly next to her. I would have narrowed my eyes if I could. I hope Mr. Pouty Lip isn't going to be there, living with us. I'm not completely sure of the nature of their relationship yet. It seems professional, but the man keeps making crude remarks that might suggest otherwise, and she doesn't always reject his playful advances. In fact, she seems quite fond of him, of this game they're playing. It is confusing at best. Well, I can only hope. I don't want to share her with this man who only likes "dogly" dogs. It isn't my fault I'm so frail, is it?

Finally she stops the car in front of a row of low buildings. Taking off her seatbelt, she leans forward and gently touches the man's shoulder.

"Mulder, wake up."

"WhaIwasn'tsleeping," he mumbles incoherently as he jolts awake.

She laughs softly. "Sure. Fine. Whatever."

The man stretches the best he can in the small space. "We're home?"

"We're at my place. Will you be okay driving yourself home?"

"I can always crush at your place if you're worried about me, Scully," he points out, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively at her.

For a moment, I'm on guard again. Is this bait? Will she bite?

To my enormous relief, though, she shakes her head, smiling wearily. "Nice try, Mulder. Good night."

Suddenly wide awake, the man launches forward to get her overnight bag from the trunk as she opens the door for me to climb out and grabs the bags containing our new purchases. Despite her protest, the man locks the car and walks us to the door. I huff in discontent at his over-protectiveness. I know a territorial alpha when I see one.

At her door, she thanks Mr. Pouty Lip and tells him to get some sleep and that she will see him tomorrow. I notice with some relief that they don't kiss goodbye. So it's nothing like _that_ , after all. I watch happily as he continues down the hallway until he finally disappears around the corner. I smile inwardly. At last, she's all mine.

"Okay, welcome to your new home, little one," she says as she locks the door behind us. I step in gingerly and sniff the dark apartment. It smells clean, of wood and candles and her. Nothing like Mrs. Lowe's place. Miss Scully kicks off her shoes and leaves the bags in the kitchen. Then I follow her as she sort of shows me around, all the while speaking to me in a normal tone, no baby voice, bless her heart. I hate it when humans treat me like a cub. Back in the kitchen, she puts some food in the new bowl we have just bought and laughs as I launch at it. She wouldn't have laughed had she known when my last meal was.

As I eat, I hear her move around the apartment, checking for messages, turning lights on, then off, undressing, getting in the shower. She's still in the shower when I'm done eating, and so I pad into the softly lit living room and curl on the rug. Given the cleanliness of her place, I guess the sofa is off limits, at least if I want to make a good impression, which I do. I am no fool and so far everything points to the fact that this one is a keeper. And I don't want to brag, but she appears to be growing fond of me. I can't do anything that might risk it.

Finally she emerges smelling like herself only cleaner, wearing dark pajamas. Her eyes wander around the room, and eventually she spots me sitting there. She kneels next to me, smiling. "I'm glad you're feeling at home. Did you enjoy your dinner?" I lick her hand enthusiastically, hoping to elicit another giggle from her. She doesn't disappoint. "Well I'm starving, so I'll make myself something to eat and we'll get to business." She reaches for the remote and turns on the TV. It's a music channel showing video clips. I'm still wondering what business we have to discuss when she calls halfway through the kitchen, "We still need to name you, don't we?"

Well, I suppose I won't stay Mr. Anonymous forever. I stare at the screen as she makes herself tea and toast, and hope she watches better television than Mrs. Lowe. Thinking back of the daily soap opera we used to watch together fills me with a sudden sense of nostalgia, though. Now we'll never know who attacked Cassie in her hospital room. I had my suspicions, of course, but those will never be verified now. Something tells me Miss Scully isn't fond of that sort of television. Besides, she seems too busy to commit herself to never-ending soap operas. As soon as she is settled on the sofa, she flips through the channels, finds a film in black and white with voices too squeaky for my taste, and places the remote on the coffee table.

She looks so comfortable, half sitting, half laying there, and she's probably warm, too. The rug isn't half bad, but it doesn't smell as nice as her. I could definitely use a cuddle; it's been a long, emotional day. I device my strategy carefully, and wait until she's finished with her dinner and lays her tea mug on the coffee table. Then I approach the sofa, sit and look up at her wide-eyed. Mr. Pouty Lip could definitely get a tip or two from me when it comes to melting a damsel's heart, I think as she scoops me up to sit in her lap. I lay against her stomach and purr inwardly as she runs her fingers through my fur.

"So how about it, little one?" she asks, tickling me behind my ear. For a second I can hardly see straight. Her voice is husky; she must be exhausted. "What are we going to call you?" She chuckles as if something has just dawned on her. "Mulder was right. We do have the same hair color... kind of." She sighs at the thought of the man. The sound is enigmatic, just like her. I can't determine if it is apprehension, yearning unfulfilled, or something else entirely. Are humans always so confusing, or is it just these two?

"I can't call you Ginger or he'll make fun of me forever," she says, her fingers trailing to my back. "And naming you something cute is definitely out of the question."

Yes, she didn't strike me as a person who would name her dog Sparkle or Precious or Sweetheart. Thank goodness.

I look up at her. I haven't noticed how blue her eyes were earlier. They're suddenly filled with sadness again. "Missy would have known; although she probably would have preferred a large dog like Mulder."

I don't know who Missy is or why the name would sadden her so. Also, I can't help but wonder if she realizes how often she mentions Mr. Pouty Lip. He isn't there with us, but at the same time he is very much present in the dark room, much to my dismay.

Then her brow furrows, and she looks at me thoughtfully. "Queequeg?" she half says, half asks, trying it out. I tilt my head, trying to figure her out. How did she come up with that? Is that even a name?

"Do you like it?"

 _I'm not sure_ , I want to tell her, but is there a better alternative? Hercules? Shakespeare? Neither is really appealing to me. And Queequeg does have an exotic, mysterious sound to it. I yip twice, and to my astonishment, even though I think she'll be thrilled, a tear rolls down her cheek. She wipes it angrily with her arm and sniffs.

"Ahab would have hated you."

Her voice is trembling although I can't understand what has upset her again. I'm feeling at loss, and somewhat hopeless. All I want is for her to smile again. I shift slightly so I'm nestled against her, my head all but buried in her armpit.

"I'm okay, Queequeg. I just miss him."

Him? Mr. Pouty Lip? Or is there anyone else, another significant other in her life?

And then I decide it doesn't matter, not really. I would have a lifetime to figure it all out, to figure _her_ out. I don't care about the competition, about the lanky man and his innuendoes. I'm the one who gets to go home with her, who will soon know the mysteries of her heart. For as long as we are together, I will make her happy.

Making myself comfortable in her lap, I lay my head on her stomach again and let the sound her breathing to lull me to sleep. How incredible life is, I muse drowsily. Only a few hours ago I was unsure of my future, but now a whole new life has been given to me. As I drift deeper into blissful slumber, for the first time in a long time I feel hope. My name is Queequeg and the lovely Miss Scully is mine for as long as I shall live.


End file.
